The reader will understand that the object to be first achieved, was to

raise a vessel, with a hold filled with flour and gunpowder, from off

the bottom of the bay to its surface. As she stood, the deck of this

vessel was about six feet under water, and every one will understand

that her weight, so long as it was submerged in a fluid as dense as that

of the sea, would be much more manageable than if suspended in air. The

barrels, for instance, were not much heavier than the water they

displaced, and the wood work of the vessel itself, was, on the whole,

positively lighter than the element in which it had sunk. As for the

water in the hold, that was of the same weight as the water on the

outside of the craft, and there had not been much to carry the schooner

down, beside her iron, the spars that were out of water, and her

ballast. This last, some ten or twelve tons in weight, was in fact the

principal difficulty, and alone induced Spike to have any doubts about

his eventual success. There was no foreseeing the result until he had

made a trial, however, and the order was again given to “heave away.”

To the infinite satisfaction of the Swash’s crew, the weight was found

quite manageable, so long as the hull remained beneath the water.

Mulford, with three or four assistants, was kept on board the schooner

lightening her, by getting the other anchor off her bows, and throwing

the different objects overboard, or on the decks of the brig. By the

time the bulwarks reached the surface, as much was gained in this way,

as was lost by having so much of the lighter wood-work rise above the

water. As a matter of course, however, the weight increased as the

vessel rose, and more especially as the lower portion of the spars, the

bowsprit, boom, &c., from being buoyant assistants, became so much dead

weight to be lifted.

Spike kept a watchful eye on his spars, and the extra supports he had

given them. He was moving, the whole time, from point to point, feeling

shrouds and back-stays, and preventers, in order to ascertain the degree

of strain on each, or examining how the purchases stood. As for the

crew, they cheered at their toil, incessantly, passing from capstan bars

to the handspikes, and _vice versa_. They, too, felt that their task was

increasing in resistance as it advanced, and now found it more difficult

to gain an inch, than it had been at first to gain a foot. They seemed,

indeed, to be heaving their own vessel out, instead of heaving the other

craft up, and it was not long before they had the Swash heeling over

toward the wreck several streaks. The strain, moreover, on every thing,

became not only severe, but somewhat menacing. Every shroud, back-stay

and preventer was as taut as a bar of iron, and the chain-cable that led

to the anchor planted off abeam, was as straight as if the brig were

riding by it in a gale of wind. One or two ominous surges aloft, too,

had been heard, and, though no more than straps and slings settling into

their places under hard strains, they served to remind the crew that

danger might come from that quarter. Such was the state of things, when

Spike called out to “heave and pall,” that he might take a look at the

condition of the wreck.

Although a great deal remained to be done, in order to get the schooner

to float, a great deal had already been done. Her precise condition was

as follows: Having no cabin widows, the water had entered her, when she

capsized, by the only four apertures her construction possessed. These

were the companion-way, or cabin-doors; the sky-light; the main-hatch,

or the large inlet amid-ships, by which cargo went up and down; and the

booby-hatch, which was the counterpart of the companion-way, forward;

being intended to admit of ingress to the forecastle, the apartment of

the crew. Each of these hatch-ways, or orifices, had the usual defences

of “coamings,” strong frame-work around their margins. These coamings

rose six or eight inches above the deck, and answered the double purpose

of strengthening the vessel, in a part, that without them would be

weaker than common, and of preventing any water that might be washing

about the decks from running below. As soon, therefore, as these three

apertures, or their coamings, could be raised above the level of the

water of the basin, all danger of the vessel’s receiving any further

tribute of that sort from the ocean would be over. It was to this end,

consequently, that Spike’s efforts had been latterly directed, though

they had only in part succeeded. The schooner possessed a good deal of

sheer, as it is termed; or, her two extremities rose nearly a foot above

her centre, when on an even keel. This had brought her extremities first

to the surface, and it was the additional weight which had consequently

been brought into the air, that had so much increased the strain, and

induced Spike to pause. The deck forward, as far aft as the foremast,

and aft as far forward as the centre of the trunk, or to the sky-light,

was above the water, or at least awash; while all the rest of it was

covered. In the vicinity of the main-hatch there were several inches of

water; enough indeed to leave the upper edge of the coamings submerged

by about an inch. To raise the keel that inch by means of the purchases,

Spike well knew would cost him more labor, and would incur more risk

than all that had been done previously, and he paused before he would

attempt it.

The men were now called from the brig and ordered to come on board the

schooner. Spike ascertained by actual measurement how much was wanted to

bring the coamings of the main-hatch above the water, until which was

done, pumping and bailing would be useless. He found it was quite an

inch, and was at a great loss to know how that inch should be obtained.

Mulford advised another trial with the handspikes and bars, but to this

Spike would not consent. He believed that the masts of the brig had

already as much pressure on them as they would bear. The mate next

proposed getting the main boom off the vessel, and to lighten the craft

by cutting away her bowsprit and masts. The captain was well enough

disposed to do this, but he doubted whether it would meet with the

approbation of “Don Wan,” who was still ashore with Rose and her aunt,

and who probably looked forward to recovering his gunpowder by means of

those very spars. At length the carpenter hit upon a plan that was

adopted.

This plan was very simple, though it had its own ingenuity. It will be

remembered that water could now only enter the vessel’s hold at the

main-hatch, all the other hatchways having their coamings above the

element. The carpenter proposed, therefore, that the main-hatches, which

had been off when the tornado occurred, but which had been found on deck

when the vessel righted, should now be put on, oakum being first laid

along in their rabbetings, and that the cracks should be stuffed with

additional oakum, to exclude as much water as possible. He thought that

two or three men, by using caulking irons for ten minutes, would make

the hatch-way so tight that very little water would penetrate. While

this was doing, he himself would bore as many holes forward and aft, as

he could, with a two inch augur, out of which the water then in the

vessel would be certain to run. Spike was delighted with this project,

and gave the necessary orders on the spot.

This much must be said of the crew of the Molly Swash—whatever they did

in their own profession, they did intelligently and well. On the present

occasion they maintained their claim to this character, and were both

active and expert. The hatches were soon on, and, in an imperfect

manner, caulked. While this was doing, the carpenter got into a boat,

and going under the schooner’s bows, where a whole plank was out of

water, he chose a spot between two of the timbers, and bored a hole as

near the surface of the water as he dared to do. Not satisfied with one

hole, however, he bored many—choosing both sides of the vessel to make

them, and putting some aft as well as forward. In a word, in the course

of twenty minutes the schooner was tapped in at least a dozen places,

and jets of water, two inches in diameter, were spouting from her on

each bow, and under each quarter.

Spike and Mulford noted the effect. Some water, doubtless, still worked

itself into the vessel about the main-hatch, but that more flowed from

her by means of the outlets just named, was quite apparent. After close

watching at the outlets for some time, Spike was convinced that the

schooner was slowly rising, the intense strain that still came from the

brig producing that effect as the vessel gradually became lighter. By

the end of half an hour, there could be no longer any doubt, the holes,

which had been bored within an inch of the water, being now fully two

inches above it. The augur was applied anew, still nearer to the surface

of the sea, and as fresh outlets were made, those that began to manifest

a dulness in their streams were carefully plugged.

Spike now thought it was time to take a look at the state of things on

deck. Here, to his joy, he ascertained that the coamings had actually

risen a little above the water. The reader is not to suppose by this

rising of the vessel, that she had become sufficiently buoyant, in

consequence of the water that had run out of her, to float of herself!

This was far from being the case; but the constant upward pressure from

the brig, which, on mechanical principles tended constantly to bring

that craft upright, had the effect to lift the schooner as the latter

was gradually relieved from the weight that pressed her toward the

bottom.

The hatches were next removed, when it was found that the water in the

schooner’s hold had so far lowered, as to leave a vacant space of quite

a foot between the lowest part of the deck and its surface. Toward the

two extremities of the vessel this space necessarily was much increased,

in consequence of the sheer. Men were now sent into the hatchway with

orders to hook on to the flour-barrels—a whip having been rigged in

readiness to hoist them on deck. At the same time gangs were sent to the

pumps, though Spike still depended for getting rid of the water somewhat

on the augur—the carpenter continuing to bore and plug his holes as new

opportunities offered, and the old outlets became useless. It was true

this expedient would soon cease, for the water having found its level in

the vessel’s hold, was very nearly on a level also with that on the

outside. Bailing also was commenced, both forward and aft.

Spike’s next material advantage was obtained by means of the cargo. By

the time the sun had set, fully two hundred barrels had been rolled into

the hatchway, and passed on deck, whence, about half of them, were sent

in the light-house boat to the nearest islet, and the remainder were

transferred to the deck of the brig. These last were placed on the off

side of the Swash, and aided in bringing her nearer upright. A great

deal was gained in getting rid of these barrels. The water in the

schooner lowered just as much as the space they had occupied, and the

vessel was relieved at once of twenty tons in weight.

Just after the sun had set, Señor Don Juan Montefalderon and his party

returned on board. They had staid on the island to the last moment, at

Rose’s request, for she had taken as close an observation of every

thing, as possible, in order to ascertain if any means of concealment

existed, in the event of her aunt, Biddy, and herself quitting the brig.

The islets were all too naked and too small, however; and she was

compelled to return to the Swash, without any hopes derived from this

quarter.

Spike had just directed the people to get their suppers as the Mexican

came on board. Together they descended to the schooner’s deck, where

they had a long but secret conference. Señor Montefalderon was a calm,

quiet and reasonable man, and while he felt as one would be apt to feel,

who had recently seen so many associates swept suddenly out of

existence, the late catastrophe did not in the least unman him. It is

too much the habit of the American people to receive their impressions

from newspapers, which throw off their articles unreflectingly, and

often ignorantly, as crones in petticoats utter their gossip. In a word,

the opinions thus obtained are very much on a level, in value, with the

thoughts of those who are said to think aloud, and who give utterance to

all the crudities and trivial rumors that may happen to reach their

ears. In this manner, we apprehend, very false notions of our neighbors

of Mexico have become circulated among us. That nation is a mixed race,

and has necessarily the various characteristics of such an origin, and

it is unfortunately little influenced by the diffusion of intelligence

which certainly exists here. Although an enemy, it ought to be

acknowledged, however, that even Mexico has her redeeming points.

Anglo-Saxons as we are, we have no desire to unnecessarily illustrate

that very marked feature in the Anglo-Saxon character, which prompts the

mother stock to calumniate all who oppose it, but would rather adopt

some of that chivalrous courtesy of which so much that is lofty and

commendable is to be found among the descendants of Old Spain.

The Señor Montefalderon was earnestly engaged in what he conceived to be

the cause of his country. It was scarcely possible to bring together two

men impelled by motives more distinct than Spike and this gentleman. The

first was acting under impulses of the lowest and most groveling nature;

while the last was influenced by motives of the highest. However much

Mexico may, and has, weakened her cause by her own punic faith,

instability, military oppression, and political revolutions, giving to

the Texans in particular, ample justification for their revolt, it was

not probable that Don Juan Montefalderon saw the force of all the

arguments that a casuist of ordinary ingenuity could certainly adduce

against his country; for it is a most unusual thing to find a man any

where, who is willing to admit that the positions of an opponent are

good. He saw in the events of the day, a province wrested from his

nation; and, in his reasoning on the subject, entirely overlooking the

numerous occasions on which his own fluctuating government had given

sufficient justification, not to say motives, to their powerful

neighbors, to take the law into their own hands, and redress themselves;

he fancied all that has occurred was previously planned, instead of

regarding it, as it truly is, as merely the result of political events,

that no man could have foreseen, that no man had originally imagined, or

that any man could control.

Don Juan understood Spike completely, and quite justly appreciated not

only his character, but his capabilities. Their acquaintance was not of

a day, though it had ever been marked by that singular combination of

caution and reliance that is apt to characterize the intercourse between

the knave and the honest man, when circumstances compel not only

communication, but, to a certain extent, confidence. They now paced the

deck of the schooner, side by side, for fully an hour, during which time

the price of the vessel, the means, and the mode of payment and

transfer, were fully settled between them.

“But what will you do with your passengers, Don Esteban?” asked the

Mexican pleasantly, when the more material points were adjusted. “I feel

a great interest in the young lady in particular, who is a charming

señorita, and who tells me that her aunt brought her this voyage on

account of her health. She looks much too blooming to be out of health,

and if she were, this is a singular voyage for an invalid to make!”

“You don’t understand human natur’ yet, altogether, I see, Don Wan,”

answered Spike, chuckling and winking. “As you and I are not only good

friends, but what a body may call _old_ friends, I’ll let you into a

secret in this affair, well knowing that you’ll not betray it. It’s

quite true that the old woman thinks her niece is a pulmonory, as they

call it, and that this v’y’ge is recommended for her, but the gal is as

healthy as she’s handsom’.”

“Her constitution, then, must be very excellent, for it is seldom I have

seen so charming a young woman. But if the aunt is misled in this

matter, how has it been with the niece?”

Spike did not answer in words, but he leered upon his companion, and he

winked.

“You mean to be understood that you are in intelligence with each other,

I suppose, Don Esteban,” returned the Señor Montefalderon, who did not

like the captain’s manner, and was willing to drop the discourse.

Spike then informed his companion, in confidence, that he and Rose were

affianced, though without the aunt’s knowledge. That he intended to

marry the niece the moment he reached a Mexican port with the brig, and

that it was their joint intention to settle in the country. He added

that the affair required management, as his intended had property, and

expected more, and he begged Don Juan to aid him, as things drew near to

a crisis. The Mexican evaded an answer, and the discourse dropped.

The moon was now shining, and would continue to throw its pale light

over the scene for two or three hours longer. Spike profited by the

circumstance to continue the work of lightening the schooner. One of the

first things done next was to get up the dead, and to remove them to the

boat. This melancholy office occupied an hour, the bodies being landed

on the islet, near the powder, and there interred in the sands. Don Juan

Montefalderon attended on this occasion, and repeated some prayers over

the graves, as he had done in the morning, in the cases of the two who

had been buried near the light-house.

While this melancholy duty was in the course of performance, that of

pumping and bailing was continued, under the immediate personal

superintendance of Mulford. It would not be easy to define, with perfect

clearness, the conflicting feelings by which the mate of the Swash was

now impelled. He had no longer any doubt on the subject of Spike’s

treason, and had it not been for Rose, he would not have hesitated a

moment about making off in the light-house boat for Key West, in order

to report all that had passed to the authorities. But not only Rose

_was_ there, and to be cared for, but what was far more difficult to get

along with, her aunt was with her. It is true Mrs. Budd was no longer

Spike’s dupe; but under any circumstances she was a difficult subject to

manage, and most especially so in all matters that related to the sea.

Then the young man submitted, more or less, to the strange influence

which a fine craft almost invariably obtains over those that belong to

her. He did not like the idea of deserting the Swash, at the very moment

he would not have hesitated about punishing her owner for his many

misdeeds. In a word, Harry was too much of a tar not to feel a deep

reluctance to turn against his cruise, or his voyage, however much

either might be condemned by his judgment, or even by his principles.

It was quite nine o’clock when the Señor Montefalderon and Spike

returned from burying the dead. No sooner did the last put his foot on

the deck of his own vessel, than he felt the fall of one of the

purchases which had been employed in raising the schooner. It was so far

slack as to satisfy him that the latter now floated by her own buoyancy,

though it might be well to let all stand until morning, for the purposes

of security. Thus apprised of the condition of the two vessels, he gave

the welcome order to “knock-off for the night.”

* * * * *

THE LOVE DIAL.

BY LIEUT. G. W. PATTON.

A dial in the twilight lay,

Reflecting back pale evening’s ray,

When stealthily two lovers came

And leaned beside its silent frame:

“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,

Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”

—But who might trace time’s tangled way

On dials dim with twilight gray?

As brightly now the midnight moon

Rode o’er the starry arch of noon,

To learn the hour of eventide

Again the youth and maiden sighed:

“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,

Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”

—But ’neath the moon’s uncertain ray

The shadow pointed still astray.

Unconscious how the moments flew,

(Bound by the spell which passion drew,)

Unto the dial’s line of shade

Once more approached the youth and maid:

“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,

Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”

When (how could night so fast have worn?)

The tell-tale shadow marked the morn.

And as they watched the silv’ry face

Where day his hours began to trace,

In morning’s light, now stronger grown,

This motto o’er the circle shown:

“_When lovers meet at eventide,_

_Time marks not how the moments glide:_

_When lovers part at rosy light_

_Time counts the ling’ring hours till night._”

* * * * *

OLD MAIDS.

OR KATE WILSON’S MORNING VISIT.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

And now I see with eye serene,

The very pulse of the machine;

A being breathing thoughtful breath,

A traveler between life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;

A perfect woman, nobly planned

To warn, to comfort, and command;

And yet a spirit still, and bright

With something of an angel-light.

WORDSWORTH.

“I have just been visiting Miss Agnes Lincoln,” said my young friend

Kate Wilson to me one morning. “Truly, Miss Enna, she is the most

charming woman I have ever known—always excepting, of course, your own

dear self. Though no longer young, she is still beautiful—intelligent,

clever, without the slightest tinge of pedantry; gentle and loveable.

Why is it that she has never married? She has been a devoted daughter

and sister; I have always felt surprise and regret that she should not

have been a wife.”

The tone of voice told the regret which those words expressed, and

caused me to smile as I looked at my bright-eyed friend, who, being on

the eve of marriage herself with one she loved very dearly, thought, of

course, the married state the only true vocation for a woman.

“But, Kate,” I replied, “Agnes Lincoln has always had duties sufficient

to employ her in her home circle—her heart has been too much occupied

with providing for the comfort of her brothers and sisters, and nursing

a poor invalid mother, to go out on voyages, in order to seek a fellow

heart, or to attend to the said fellow heart, should it come wooing.

Only unoccupied, free-from-care bodies, like your sweet self, can find

time to fall in love and marry—”

“Nonsense!” said the blushing Kate, “do not tease me with such

_badinage_. I wish you would tell me Miss Lincoln’s history—romantic I

have already determined it is—for those deep, dark eyes of hers give

evidences, by their bright flashings at times, of the existence of a

fount of passion, which, I am sure, must have welled up and bubbled over

at some period of her life. You have known her intimately from girlhood,

Miss Duval, come, tell me the tale. See, it is the very time for a long

story, we are certain of being alone, no stupid visiters will interrupt

us, for those threatening, overhanging clouds are already beginning to

let down their watery contents—the fire snaps and sparkles in a most

sociable manner, and I will spend the whole day with you in this cheery

little room of yours.”

Accordingly she threw aside her bonnet and shawl—pushed what she called

“the troublesome desk, and still more wearying work-basket,” away from

me, then throwing herself on a low ottoman beside me, looked most

persuasively into my face for the web of romance she was determined I

should weave, and with the air of one determined not to be denied.

“Do you deserve, Kate,” I said, “that I should entertain you, when you

seem to think so slightingly of the mission of my sisterhood? Saucy

girl! are old maids always to be regarded by such sparkling, merry

witches like yourself, as leading lives useless to both man and

womankind?”

“No, no, dear Miss Enna,” exclaimed the lovely girl, as she gathered her

graceful limbs on her favorite seat beside me, in order to make her dear

little luxurious form still more comfortable, gazing into my face with

her bright dancing eyes, and holding my hands caressingly, “Heaven

knows, I have had need to bless the sisterhood, for what would I have

been without such a dear, good, kind—” I stopped her rosy flattering

lips with my hand, and yielded to her request. Kate Wilson promised to

be lenient should my story have less of interest and romance in it than

she expected—will you, my dear reader, be as merciful and indulgent?

As Kate said, I had known Agnes Lincoln from girlhood—yes,

babyhood—for we had been introduced by our proud, happy mothers to each

other, in our first long dresses, and had taken infinite delight, so our

nurses had said, in tearing the blue and pink cockades off of each

other’s caps. We were always warm friends; went to the same schools,

and, as our parents were intimate, when we grew up visited in the same

circles. Agnes’ father was the senior member of one of the most opulent

firms in the city—his wealth was said to be immense, and truly they

lived in a style of princely magnificence. She was the eldest of several

children. The three next to her died in infancy, which made quite a

difference between her and the other children in point of age. Her

mother was a woman of exceedingly delicate frame, and sickness and the

distress she had suffered on losing her children, weakened still more a

mind never very strong. I always remember her as an invalid—surrounded

by every luxury wealth could purchase; possessing a doting husband and a

family of noble children; yet always repining and melancholy.

Agnes had been educated by her father with exceeding great care; and as

she grew up was a most agreeable companion for him. He accompanied her

into society; they studied, rode, drove and walked together; indeed one

could rarely see them apart. How proud was he of her; and he lavished

every costly gift upon her with an unsparing hand. She was beautiful—a

tall, splendid looking creature—a fine erect figure, with the bearing

of a queen, and a head fitted for a Zenobia—but the classic severity of

her features was softened by the most melting, lovely eyes, and the

gentle melodious tones of her voice were bewitching. Beautiful, rich and

young, of course Agnes Lincoln was a belle. She had been full two years

in society, and to the surprise of her friends she was still disengaged.

“I shall never marry, Enna,” she would say to me, in answer to my

playful reproaches upon her want of susceptibility—“how could my poor

mother or lonely father spare me?” and at last I began to think, as many

others did, that Agnes was one of those born to a life of “single

blessedness,” when

“Lo! the troubled joy of life,

Love’s lightening happiness,”

became known to her. Agnes’ choice surprised us all. Evart Berkely was a

young merchant reputed wealthy, but not at all agreeable or pleasing to

my fancy. He was handsome and tolerably intelligent—had been well

educated and had traveled abroad, bringing with him from his travels

various “foreign airs and graces,” which did not improve his

agreeability to my taste. He was certainly much inferior to Agnes in

point of intellect; but she loved him nevertheless. I always thought him

a cold, calculating man, and the passionate love he expressed for my

beautiful friend seemed so unnatural, falling from his cold unexpressive

lips. Mr. Lincoln was at first as much dissatisfied and surprised at

Agnes’ choice as the rest of her friends; but when he discovered how

completely her whole heart was given up to this infatuation, as he could

make no serious objection to the gentleman, he quickly quieted all

expressions of disapprobation, and only stipulated that their engagement

should be a long one, pleading his wife’s health and his own lonely

state as excuses. The lover, of course, was impatient at these

obstacles, but Agnes, always alive to her father’s happiness, steadily

refused to shorten the period of two years, decided upon by her father.

Evart was a devoted lover, and seemed to exist only in the presence of

his mistress; and dear Agnes was so supremely happy—I fancifully

imagined her beauty increased under this new influence of love.

She had been engaged to Evart Berkely about a year, when one evening we

all met at Mr. Lincoln’s, on our way to a gay private ball. I had always

gone into society with Agnes and Mr. Lincoln; for my mother dying while

I was quite a young girl, my father had been so deeply affected by her

death—as she had been to him companion, guide, and comforter—that he

avoided all society, and sought consolation in close application to his

profession. He had been from boyhood on the closest terms of intimacy

with Mr. Lincoln, and willingly consented that I should accompany Agnes

on her entrance into society, under Mr. Lincoln’s care. Accordingly, on

the night I allude to, I had been driven to Mr. Lincoln’s, that I might

be one of their party. I particularize this one evening, for it was the

most eventful night of Agnes’ life—the turning point in her existence.

Events occurred on that night which gave the stamp and impress to her

future. I remember thinking, as I looked upon her, after the completion

of her toilette, that I had never seen her so magnificently beautiful.

Her father and lover were rather gorgeous in their tastes, and to please

them Agnes always dressed with more splendor than accorded with her own

fancy; but the peculiar style of her beauty was well suited to this

manner of dressing. Her tall, full form could well bear the heavy folds

of rich drapery that always swept around her, and the brilliant jewels

that gleamed and flashed in her dark hair, and on her snowy throat and

arms, were admitted by even the most fastidious to be in good taste. She

was the daughter of a reputed _millionaire_, beautiful and

noble-looking—costly garments and rich gems seemed well fitted for her.

It was a grand ball we were going to, and after spending the accustomed

half hour in Mr. Lincoln’s library, he gave us into Evart Berkely’s

charge. Agnes entreated her father to accompany her with more than her

customary earnestness; but he pleaded indolence, and laughingly reminded

her that her lover’s presence should be sufficient. I could not account

for the tinge of sadness that gloomed over her features; and when Evart

and I rallied her on her absence of mind, during our drive to the ball,

she frankly confessed her feelings were unaccountable, and said she had

been suffering all day from a vague, indefinable sense of approaching

evil. We cheered her, and attributed her feelings to nervousness; what

evil could one so prosperous and happy have to fear?

As usual, she was the centre of attraction, and crowds followed her.

Evart hovered around her incessantly, and her quiet, happy looks, as she

received his attentions, so openly offered, were to me most fascinating.

Her sadness and home yearnings seemed to melt before the bright light of

the ball-room, and the merry laughter and gay looks of her friends, put

to flight all gloomy thoughts. I thought I had never heard her voice so

melodious, her laugh more buoyant, nor her dancing so graceful; she

appeared as the embodiment of happiness. During the course of the

evening, I was standing alone by a window, in a recess, that opened into

a conservatory, almost, if not quite, hidden by the folds of the

drapery, enjoying, in a sort of dreamy state, the rich odors of the

flowers, and the bewitching strains of the music. The movements of the

crowd brought two old gentlemen directly in front of me, in such a

manner that I could not have moved if I had wished from my hiding-place.

“Hugh Lincoln’s daughter is a beautiful creature,” said one to the

other.

“She is, indeed,” replied the friend, “and she dresses like a

sultana—look at her magnificent gems and gorgeous clothing. Hugh

Lincoln has been a fortunate man, and his daughter will be a rich wife

for the one that marries her.”

“May be so, and may be not,” said the first speaker; “one cannot tell

how a man’s estate may turn out while still engaged in business. Hugh

Lincoln has been a bold, daring merchant; he always incurs fearful

risks, and although he has hitherto been fortunate, one turning of luck

may sweep all his grandeur from him—for he perils all on every great

speculation.”

“She is engaged,” said the friend, “to young Berkely, who is so

constantly with her. He is a shrewd, calculating fellow; one might feel

certain of Hugh Lincoln’s wealth by the mere knowledge of that

engagement.”

A movement of the crowd took place, and the two worldly old croakers, as

I deemed them, passed away. I kept my place, and my thoughts were filled

with Agnes and her future. Vague forebodings pressed upon me, and all my

old dislike and distrust of Evart returned to me. Low passionate

murmurings of love came next upon my ear. Evart and Agnes stood beside

me with the heavy folds of the curtain between us, and I became again an

unintentional listener. Evart poured out the most fervent expressions of

love—he besought my friend to delay their wedding no longer.

“Think, my idolized one,” he murmured, “how long has been my probation

already.”

“No, no, Evart,” replied Agnes, steadily, “do not urge me. My father,

who, from my earliest recollection has been devoted to my happiness,

asks me to delay my marriage. I will not act against his wishes. It

would be but a poor promise for our future happiness were I to be thus

regardless of my father’s comfort. Adel is too young to supply my place

to him for a year or two yet. We are together constantly, and a year

will soon pass around.”

“And the coming year may see you wedded to another,” exclaimed her lover

passionately.

“Evart,” said Agnes, reproachfully, “have I not promised to be your

wife?”

“But, Agnes,” replied Evart, in hurried words, “suppose sorrow were to

overtake me—men in business are daily exposed to ruin—what then could

I depend on? Your father would never consent to your marriage with a

bankrupt; and to my troubles would be added the fearful necessity of

yielding you up forever.”

“Say not so, dear Evart,” replied Agnes, in earnest, loving tones; “in

the hour of trouble you would be dearer to me, if possible, than now. I

have promised to be your wife—I hold that promise sacred, believe me;

and, moreover, I know my father’s generous nature too well to think as

you do—in misfortune he would be kinder to you than in prosperity. But

why talk of misfortune—are there any clouds on your business horizon?

Come, tell me your troubles, and if you are, indeed, on the eve of

bankruptcy, which Heaven avert, seek advice from my father; never fear,

Evart, he will willingly assist you; and if it would lighten your heart

in the midst of such affliction, I would be your wife instantly; in such

a case my father would no longer object—you would need the consoling

society of a wife more than he would need his daughter;” and Agnes’ face

wore a look of mingled affection and anxiety as she took his hand.

“Truly,” exclaimed Evart, laughing, “I have half a mind to declare

myself a bankrupt, if it would have that effect. But do not look so

anxiously, my blessed one—my affairs are in a most prosperous

condition. I was wrong to alarm you, yet it proved to me your love,

dearest, which, indeed, I sometimes am weak enough to doubt. I torment

myself with a thousand fancies. You are so beautiful, Agnes, so

superior—I so unworthy of you, that I am always fearing a change in

your feelings.”

“Now that is really unkind, Evart,” was Agnes’ reproachful answer; “am I

prone to changing—who have I ever loved but you? You should not be thus

suspicious, or you will make me fearful of change, not in myself but in

you.”

Then followed from Evart the most fervent, passionate declarations,

which were interrupted by the approach of some friends, who came to seek

their assistance in forming a favorite dance; and I escaped from my

hiding-place. I was so intimate with Agnes—her second self, as she

playfully called me—that I felt no annoyance at having been forced to

play the listener to her love scene; on the contrary, congratulated

myself that no stranger, or mere acquaintance, had been in my place. I

descended from the steps of the window into the conservatory, and spent

a full hour in examining the beautiful plants—imagining myself in fairy

land. The pure, beautiful light shed from the alabaster vases, which,

containing lamps, were placed in different parts of the conservatory;

the bewitching tones of music that came sweeping from the ball-room, and

the soft night air that poured in from the open, outer windows, all

heightened the illusion, and I fancied I was listening to the divine

spirit-melody of the flower-sylphs, and inhaling their balmy atmosphere.

How every moment of that night is impressed upon my memory; every word,

every change of feeling—all were treasured up.

I was roused from my delicious reveries by Agnes and Evart, who came to

announce to me it was time to retire. “As usual,” said Agnes, tenderly

putting her arm around me, “I find you dreaming waking visions among the

flowers. I fear my sad thoughts, dear Enna, have flown to you. I was so

full of vague forebodings, when I left home, and now they have all

vanished. I am as happy and light-hearted as I have ever been in my

life; every thing around me seems to wear a fairy, heavenly hue.”

Thus she chatted away during our drive home. We bade her good night at

Mr. Lincoln’s door, and the carriage drove away, bearing us to our own

homes—one short half-hour after, and the same carriage bore me back

again to that house in deep affliction. Agnes, after bidding us good

night, entered the hall, and was proceeding up the stair-case to her own

room, when, as she passed the library, she saw the library light still

burning, which was to her a notice of her father’s waiting up for her

return. She entered with a light heart and a merry song. Her father was

seated in his chair, leaning his head forward on his reading-desk,

apparently asleep. She bent over him to awaken him by gentle caresses,

but ere her lips touched his brow, the expression of his face startled

her. She gave one long, searching look, then uttered a piercing shriek

of agony, which startled the whole house. He was dead. There, in that

solitary room, his spirit had taken flight, alone, without daughter or

friend beside him to receive his parting words of love. Poor Agnes! with

what agony she leaned over him—vainly calling on him to speak to

her—to look, if only once more, upon his own Agnes. It was a sad

sight—this beautiful girl bending over her dead father—her rich

drapery falling heavily around her, and her magnificent hair, which had

escaped from the circlet of gems which bound it, swept the ground,

making her pale face appear still more pallid, as its heavy, dark masses

hung over her fair shoulders. Her earnest, heart-rending appeals were

terrifying; not a tear flowed from her dark eyes—they seemed distended

with agony; and the physicians who had been hastily summoned feared that

the shock would deprive her of reason, if not of life. I at last

succeeded in leading her away from her father, and, exhausted by her

intense grief, she lay for hours in a heavy stupor.

Every means were resorted to, to restore Mr. Lincoln—but all in vain.

The physicians, after an examination, decided that he had labored under

an affection of the heart, unconsciously, for some time; that he had

been on the brink of the grave for many months, undoubtedly—he, who had

seemed so healthy; and this it was which had caused his death, which

they thought had taken place some time before Agnes’ return, and with

little or no suffering, possibly without a consciousness of the

approaching fearful change. Poor Agnes! her sufferings were intense, but

her naturally strong mind, and strict sense of duty, aided her, when in

the morning, after the heavy stupor of exhaustion had passed away, the

fearful consciousness of her great sorrow arose vividly before her. She

recollected there were others to suffer, who were weaker to bear—her

poor invalid mother, and fatherless brothers and sisters. She wept long

and bitterly, when her eyes opened upon my tearful, anxious face, as I

bent over her. I blessed those tears, for I knew they would relieve her.

She at last, however, bowed meekly to the burden imposed upon her, and

hastened to soothe and comfort her almost heart-broken mother, and the

poor startled, weeping children.

Everybody grieved for Mr. Lincoln, for he was much beloved; “but,” said

the out-of-doors world, “how fortunate are his family, possessing wealth

in the midst of their sorrow. Mr. Lincoln has left them an immense

fortune to comfort them in their affliction;” as if money could

compensate for the loss of loved ones. Agnes would have gladly toiled

for their daily bread to have purchased one look from those eyes closed

in death, one accent of love from those cold, livid lips. After the

funeral, Mr. Lincoln’s will was opened. It was one made three or four

years previous to his death; and my father was one of the executors, and

sole guardian to the children. This will had been made previous to

Agnes’ engagement; but in it Mr. Lincoln expressed a wish, almost a

command, that if ever Agnes married, my father should insist upon having

the greater part of her immense fortune settled upon her.

A week or two passed by, when one evening my father returned home from

his office, later than usual, and his face wore an anxious, troubled

expression. Some case of more than ordinary misery and sadness, I

thought, has come before him, in which fate has woven a darker weft of

trouble. I hastened to procure for him the soothing cup of tea, which he

so much loved, and sat beside his chair, as he silently despatched his

light meal, expecting every moment to hear the new tale of human

suffering—but I was disappointed; my father drank his tea quietly, and

it was not until the tea-service was removed, and I seated at my

sewing-table beside his large arm-chair, that the good, kind old man

broke the silence.

“Enna, my child,” he said, in gloomy tones, “poor Agnes Lincoln, her

mother and those fatherless children are penniless.”

“Penniless—impossible!” I exclaimed. “I thought Mr. Hugh Lincoln was

admitted to be immensely wealthy.”

“His immense wealth,” said my father, “proves to be a magnificent

dream—a shining bubble. He must have been lamentably ignorant of his

own affairs, for things have evidently been going wrong for some months

past. Such wild, mad-cap speculations as the house have engaged in, I am

sure my sensible, prudent friend would never have countenanced.”

I now understood the allusions of the old gentleman, in the first

conversation which I had overheard in the ball-room, the night of Mr.

Lincoln’s fearful death, and I repeated them to my father.

“Yes, indeed,” he replied, “daring indeed have been their operations,

and not only that, but reckless and wild in the extreme. I remember now,

although I gave but little heed at the time, noticing in Hugh Lincoln,

for some months past, a heavy, growing indolence, as I deemed it. It

must have proceeded from his fatal disease, and he has left the affairs

of the concern in the hands of the junior partners, who have mismanaged

not only wildly but wickedly. Poor fellow! he has been spared the

sorrow, but what is to become of the poor invalid widow and orphans? Six

little helpless creatures beside Agnes—Adel is not more than fourteen?”

“Scarcely thirteen,” I replied.

“Poor creatures!” exclaimed my father, brushing a tear aside. “But we

must do all that we can for them. I am a poor man, but what little I

have shall be freely shared with Hugh Lincoln’s children.”

“You forget, my dear father,” I said, “that Agnes is engaged to Evart

Berkely.”

“True,” replied my father. “But, Enna, I have very little confidence in

him; I only hope Agnes may not love him too dearly, for I very much fear

that Evart’s love is rather too weak to bear the present news.”

“Does he know of the insolvency of the firm?” I inquired.

“Oh, yes,” said my father, “the mere suspicion of the insolvency of such

a firm as Lincoln, Murray & Co., would of course spread like wild-fire.

I never dreamed of such a thing myself, however, and heard this morning

with great surprise, on going to my office, from an old merchant, that

it had been rumored for several days. You must break it to Agnes, poor

girl.”

“You think Evart Berkely knows of it?” I said, after a long silence.

“Oh, yes,” replied my father, “I met him in company with some other

merchants this afternoon, and he spoke of Mr. Lincoln only as he would

of any other well-known merchant, and united in self congratulations

with some others as to being unaffected, fortunately, by the

failure—not at all in the tone of one interested in his family.”

The conversation between Agnes and Evart returned to my memory, and I

contrasted his feelings with hers—how differently would she have acted

had he been overtaken by poverty. “But,” said I to myself in the

morning, when preparing for my customary visit to Agnes, “it may be but

fancy after all—we may be wronging Evart; he did not choose to exhibit

his feelings before a crowd of men,” and with this consolatory

conclusion, I set out on my walk.

I ascended the broad steps of Agnes’ noble residence, and passed through

the wide hall and up the spacious stair-case, noting the magnificence of

the furniture with a sigh. I entered the library, where I was told I

would find Agnes. It was a grand, noble room, and in its adornments

proved that immense wealth had been guided by the subduing hand of

taste. It was lighted from above; the brick-and-mortar world without was

completely unknown in that stately room; only the blue sky by day, and

the bright stars by night, could be seen. The soft, unworldly light

gleamed down on beautiful works of art, rare and costly pieces of

sculpture, medals, gems, and here and there alcoves filled with the

productions of those whom the intellectual world call Masters.

I paused at the threshold unheard by Agnes, who was writing at an

escritoir—my eyes wandered over this intellectual Paradise and then

rested upon the Eve. I was struck with the impression of her face; it

bore a more beaming, hopeful look than I had seen on it since the night

of her father’s death. “Poor girl!” I sighed to myself, “how soon is

that brilliant expression to be dimmed by the care-clouds of life—not

only heart trials, but poverty, privation, and, worse than all to your

noble spirit—dependence.”

I moved forward, but the luxurious carpet told no tales of my

foot-falls, and my hand rested on her shoulder ere she was aware of my

entrance. She looked up, and her eyes were gleaming with tears—not

tears of sadness—and a bright flush rested on her hitherto pale cheeks;

I looked surprised, and she noting it said in trembling tones,

“Ah! dear Enna, I never valued the possession of wealth before. Read

this letter, dearest, while I finish the answer.”

I took from her hands an open letter—it was from Evart, written the

previous night, announcing anticipated severe and heavy losses, and

freeing her from her engagement—he could not, he said, ask her to wed a

penniless man—and after lamenting in a fine round period his

unworthiness of her, his misery and wretchedness, concluded with a

farewell forever. After I concluded the note, I felt that my father was

right, my hands dropped before me, and for a few moments I felt as in a

dream—a spell was over me—I could not tell my poor wronged friend the

real truth—at last she broke the silence.

“Ah! Enna,” were her words, “I bless Heaven I have enough for both. My

share of my poor father’s princely fortune will fully cover his losses,

and again establish him in life. How unkind and yet how natural is his

note—poor Evart! I can fancy his wretchedness when releasing me from my

engagement—and he must have known it was useless—but I cannot censure

him—even thus would I have acted had the loss of fortune happened to

me.”

“Would you, dear Agnes?” said I, throwing my arms over her beautiful

neck caressingly.

“Indeed would I, Enna,” she replied sadly. “It would have been a hard

duty, but steadily would I have performed it.”

“Agnes,” I said, in low, earnest tones, inwardly imploring for

assistance and strength in my painful task, “that duty is required of

you. You are the penniless one instead of Evart. He is as prosperous as

ever, but you, my poor friend, are bereft of all—but friends.”

She gazed wildly at me, then with one low wailing cry of deep agony

became insensible. She was laid on her couch, surrounded by all the

appliances of wealth so soon to be taken from her, and the heavy stupor

that hung over her spirit the bitter hours after her father’s death

ensued. But I knew her inward strength, and although I could scarcely

pray for her recovery to such misery as would be hers, I felt that the

helpless ones dependent on her for consolation would, as in the former

dark hours, sustain her. The heavy clouds passed over, and she at last

aroused her suffering broken spirit.

“Where are the letters?” she murmured in low tones.

“One I destroyed, dearest,” I replied—“the other—”

“Destroy it likewise, Enna, and help me to forget. I have others to

think of now,” and with a quiet look of repressed agony she hastily

employed herself in preparing for their future change of circumstances.

Evart was never alluded to by any one; and day after day she engaged

herself in entering into the investigation of her father’s affairs, with

the firm, quiet air of a woman of business. The investigation proved

only the painful truth—ruin, hopeless ruin stared them in the

face—every thing was swept from them. Poor Mrs. Lincoln had seemed

overwhelmed with sorrow at her husband’s death, but this new grief

appeared to her weak, indolent nature still harder to bear, and she

helplessly implored to be taken from life.

“For myself, dear Mr. Duval,” said my friend, in a calm voice, but the

tones of which showed repressed suffering, “I care not—I can endure

hardships—but my poor mother, how can she bear the change?”

“You will all come to us, dear Agnes, and we will be as one family,”

said my kind father, as they at last ended the careful examination of

the affairs. “You and Enna have always been as sisters, my poor dead

wife loved your mother as a sister. The income my profession yields you

and Enna can manage so as to supply us all. We will live plainly but

happily, I know. You are both sufficiently well informed to educate the

girls, and Adel will soon be old enough to assist you. Horace and Frank

will in a few years be able to help themselves, and supply my place when

I grow too old to fill the purse.”

Agnes sat by the table quietly gazing as upon vacancy, when my dear,

good father commenced his kind plan, and as he proceeded her dark eyes

beamed with childlike fondness on the good old man.

“Surely Heaven will bless you and yours, dear Mr. Duval, for being thus

kind to the widowed and fatherless,” she exclaimed, as he concluded.

“But I must not accept your kind offer. Your plan, however, has

confirmed me in the scheme I have been forming for some days past. If I

am sufficiently well fitted to take charge of my sisters’ education, why

not of others? If you will aid me I will open a school.”

The thought was a good one, and my father, finding Agnes steady in her

determination yielded, and used every endeavor to forward her in her

project. The creditors had refused to accept the costly wardrobe and

magnificent jewels belonging to Mrs. Lincoln and Agnes. These were

disposed of, and the money arising from their sale was appropriated by

Agnes to the furnishing of her new establishment.

“I take this money only as a loan,” said Agnes to my father. “If I am

spared, and have health and strength, at some future time it shall be

returned. I never shall feel light-hearted until my father’s liabilities

are all satisfied.”

A house was procured, every thing arranged for the opening of the

school; and it was announced in society, that the Miss Lincoln who had

been “the glass of fashion and the mould of form,” a few short months

before, was about to enter the work-day world as a teacher. Much is said

and much written about summer-friends—those who hover around the

favorites of fortune, then flee from them in the dark hour of

sorrow—but truly I have seen but little of such heartlessness, long as

I have lived in the world. People do not wish to desert those who are in

trouble. There is more of kindness of heart and sympathy in the world

than we are willing to give credit for. Circumstances and events press

so quickly in this life of change, that when one amongst us is stricken

down, although we grieve, we are urged on in the stream, and though we

would gladly aid our sinking companion, we are hurried on unconsciously.

But let the stricken one give signs of life—evidences of aiding itself,

then all are ready to give a helping hand. The race must be

completed—life’s journey accomplished—but any one exhibiting a desire

to unite in the struggle is willingly assisted. So was it with the

friends of Agnes Lincoln. Had she weakly yielded to her troubles, and

shown no disposition to aid herself, the world would have felt sorry for

her, but they would have had no time to tarry by the way-side—but when

she appeared amongst them prepared to take her part in life’s great

contest, they willingly united to help her forward.

Agnes Lincoln’s accomplishments, her elegant manners—her strong mind,

all her good qualities, were remembered; and mothers and fathers, who

had admired the beautiful girl in society, hastened to place under her

care their own daughters, asking that she might make them like her own

lovely self, and they would be satisfied. She entered heart and soul

into her new vocation; and hers became the most popular establishment in

the city. In the course of two or three years the small house had to be

changed, and a residence as large as her father’s princely mansion

taken, in order to accommodate her large school. The luxurious comforts,

necessary to her mother’s happiness, were gratified; her brothers and

sisters carefully attended to; but her own wants were few, indeed. She

was most carefully and studiously economical. Every year she deposited

in my father’s hands, a sum of money, small at first, but gradually

increasing, which she, with a sad smile, called her father’s fund; this

was devoted to the settling off the remaining accounts against her

father.

Noble creature! how every one revered her as she moved steadily on in

the path of her duty. Hers was not an easy life; hard mental labor, from

morning till night, she endured for many years. At day-dawn she was up,

superintending her household, and directing the studies of those pupils

who resided with her. The influence she exercised over those entrusted

to her care, was a subject of remark. Her commands were insisted upon

with words of love, but looks of firmness. Her girls hovered around her,

quietly watching every glance; and in that whole troop of young,

thoughtless creatures, the most of them the indulged, spoiled children

of fortune, not one but would have dreaded to disobey the simplest

request of their gentle teacher.

We met daily, as formerly, and I still was to her the confidante and

bosom friend I had been in the days of her wealth. She never spoke of

Evart—we both avoided all allusion to him; and when, a few years after

their separation, he married a wealthy woman from a neighboring city,

and his marriage was mentioned before her, by those who knew not of her

former connection with him, or else had forgotten it, a mere

acquaintance could not have detected any trace or evidence of feeling.

The marble paleness of her cheek, the firm closed mouth, and quiet, but

sad look, which told of inward suffering, betrayed to me, however, that

her thoughts were with the past, and I noticed in her, for some time

after, a closer attendance to her duties—not one moment, night or day,

left unoccupied; and her brow bore a more serious expression, that told

of self-combatings and heart-struggles.

Year after year passed, and Agnes had the satisfaction of seeing her

sisters growing up charming women, admired in society, and her two

brothers displaying the good qualities, and honorable, high spirits of

their father. By her exertions they were educated; and ten years after

her father’s death she paid off his last debt, and had the pleasure of

seeing her eldest brother, Horace, who had just completed his studies,

enter his profession as a partner with my father. The little Frank, her

father’s darling, would be nothing but a merchant, as his father had

been, and was dreaming seventeen-year-old visions of future grandeur,

such as his father had probably dreamed at his age, and realized. He

would wreath his mother’s fretful, complaining countenance with smiles,

as he would describe the wealth he intended to accumulate, and the

splendid things that should once more be hers. Two weddings were

celebrated by Agnes—her two sisters, Adel and Mary, who married upright

and warm-hearted men, prosperous in business; and Agnes felt almost a

maternal pride as she furnished their houses, and provided the wedding

wardrobes. The world wondered she did not marry, for her beauty never

left her, nor were opportunities wanting. Many a fond, widowed father

would have gladly persuaded the idolized teacher of their daughters to

share their fortunes; but she calmly and quietly refused all offers, and

seemed at last to find real happiness in her business.

Fifteen years passed by, and found Agnes still at her post. One only of

those little ones, bequeathed by a loving father to her care, remained

under her roof—and she was soon to leave Agnes to become a wife. All

were married, happy, and well. The poor old mother had at last ceased

all wailings, and had laid down to her long rest, when a new care

devolved upon Agnes. Evart Berkely, who had appeared for years to be a

prosperous man, and thought by many to possess great wealth, suddenly

failed, and in a moment of despair put a violent end to his existence.

His wife had died some five or six years before, many said of a

broken-heart; and his three children were left upon the world homeless

orphans. Evart left a letter, commending his children to Agnes, who, he

said, had promised to be a mother to his children, should they ever need

her care. Then was disclosed what Agnes had kept a secret. A year after

his wife’s death, he had again sought Agnes; but his overtures were

indignantly rejected by her; he continued his addresses by letters for

some time, until Agnes refused to receive them, returning them unopened,

saying, however, in her final note, that, should his children ever be

left alone in life, she would be a mother to them; and to her home did

she take those helpless ones, and devoted herself to her business with

renewed energy to provide for their support and future establishment in

life. People shrugged their shoulders, and called her conduct Quixotic

and absurd, but the good and kind-hearted applauded her.

When my young friend, Kate Wilson, requested me to relate the history of

Agnes, forty-five years had stealthily crept over her, but even the

bitter, bleak winters of her adversity had failed to whiten her dark

locks, or dim those beaming eyes—time had dealt gently with her beauty.

Evart’s children have proved as blessings to her, and by them, and by

her brothers and sisters, and by their children, Agnes is revered almost

as a saint.

“Ah, Kate, Kate,” I said, as I arrived at this part of my “_ower true

tale_,” “has not Agnes Lincoln’s lot, as an old maid, been quite as

useful, and still more happy, than she would have been as Evart

Berkely’s broken-hearted wife?”

* * * * *

THE BRICKMAKER.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

I.

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded.

In no stately structures skilled,

What’s the temple we would build?

When its massive walls are risen

Call it palace—call it prison;

View it well from end to end,

See its arching courts extend!

’Tis a prison, not a palace!

Hear the culprit vent his malice!

Hear the mad and fettered fire

Pour the torrent of his ire!

Wrought anon to wilder spells,

Hear him tell his loud alarms,

See him thrust his glowing arms

Through the windows of his cells!

But his chains at last shall sever,

Slavery lives not forever;

And the thickest prison wall

Into ruin yet must fall!

Whatsoever falls away

Springeth up again, they say;

Then when this shall fall asunder,

And the fire be freed from under,

Tell us then what stately thing

From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a stately building,

Airy dome and columned walls;

Mottoes writ in richest gilding

Shall be blazing through its halls.

In those chambers, stern and dreaded

They, the mighty ones, shall stand;

There shall be hoary-headed

Old defenders of the land.

There shall wondrous words be spoken,

Which shall thrill a list’ning world;

Then shall ancient bonds be broken

And new banners be unfurled!

But anon these glorious uses

In those chambers shall lie dead,

And the world’s antique abuses,

Hydra-headed, rise instead.

But this wrong not long shall linger—

The old capitol must fall;

For behold the fiery finger

Flames along the fated wall!

II.

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded;

Till the heavy walls be risen

And the fire is in his prison:

Then when break the walls asunder

And the fire is freed from under,

Say again what stately thing

From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a church whose steeple

To the heavens shall aspire,

There shall come the mighty people

To the music of the choir.

O’er the infant, robed in whiteness,

There shall sacred waters fall,

While the child’s own angel-brightness

Sheds a halo over all.

There shall stand enwreathed in marriage

Forms that tremble—hearts that thrill;

To the door Death’s sable carriage

Shall bring forms and hearts grown still!

To the sound of pipes that glisten

Rustling wealth shall tread the aisle;

And the poor, without, shall listen,

Praying in their hearts the while.

There the veteran shall come weekly

With his cane, and bending o’er

’Mid the horses stand, how meekly,

Gazing at the open door.

But these wrongs not long shall linger—

The presumptuous pile must fall,

For behold the fiery finger

Flames along the fated wall!

III.

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded,

Say again what stately thing

From the ruin shall upspring?

Not the dome and columned chambers,

Starred with words of liberty,

Where the Freedom-canting members

Feel no impulse of the free.

Nor the pile where souls in error

Hear the words, “Go, sin no more!”

But a dusky thing of terror

With its cells and grated door!

To its inmates each to-morrow

Shall bring in no tide of joy.

Born in darkness and in sorrow

There shall stand the fated boy.

With a grief too loud to smother,

With a throbbing, burning head—

There shall groan some desperate mother,

Nor deny the stolen bread!

There the veteran, a poor debtor,

Marked with honorable scars,

List’ning to some clanking fetter,

Shall gaze idly through the bars:—

Shall gaze idly, not demurring,

Though with thick oppressions bowed;

While the thousands doubly erring

Shall go honored through the crowd!

Yet these wrongs not long shall linger—

The benighted pile must fall,

For behold the fiery finger

Flames along the fated wall!

IV.

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded;

Till the heavy walls be risen

And the fire is in his prison!

Every dome and church and jail,

Like this structure, soon must fail;

Every shape of earth shall fade!

But the temple God hath made,

For the sorely tried and pure,

With its Builder shall endure!

* * * * *

TO MRS. A. T.

BY DR. JNO. C. M’CABE.

I would, oh! gentle lady, that the minstrel’s art were mine,

I’d weave a wreath of poesy as an off’ring at thy shrine;

But my wild and tuneless harp in vain essays its meed to bring,

And the brooding spirit of despair has hushed each trembling string.

In vain, in vain I’ve tried to wake some gentle lay for thee,

But the chords refuse the melody they once gave out for me;

And when I fain a few wild notes from memory’s lyre would sweep,

Sad spirits of the past appear and mournful vigils keep.

There was a time when borne along on wild ambition’s wing,

I sought to place my name above—where storied minstrels sing;

Nor dreamed the crown, so bright and green, by laureate genius worn,

Though gorgeous to the eye, each leaf concealed a cruel thorn.

But when I saw that those who gazed above with eagle eye,

And dared the tempest and the storm of fate’s malignant sky,

With folded wing, and wearied foot sat down at evening’s gloom,

And sought beneath the withered flowers a rest within the tomb;

’Twas then I bade the spell dissolve that chained my soul so long,

And sighed a trembling, sad farewell to all entrancing song;

And though I may not weep that I forsook sweet poesy’s train,

A foolish boy—I sometimes wish I was her child again!

When gentle ones like thee invoke, then, then I feel how dear

The boon I madly forfeited, nor gave one farewell tear;

The gift of song, oh! hallowed gift! Song, bright, entrancing, sweet!

Had I again its rosy wreath I’d fling it at thy feet!

’Tis gone, ’tis gone! I may no more its thrilling impulse feel,

Yet I can pray for thee and thine, when to my God I kneel;

And, gentle lady, well I know thou wilt not, wouldst not, blame,

Instead of song that I should blend God’s blessings with thy name.

May every joy that life can give, around thy path be strewn,

May its young morn to thee foreshow a bright and happy noon;

And when thy last sweet song on earth in lapses faint is given,

Oh may it be a prelude soft to deathless strains in Heaven!

* * * * *

AMERICAN INDIANS.

WITH AN ENGRAVING.

We have thought proper, in conducting a magazine of higher reputation

and aim than the usual run of the light periodicals of the day, to

devote a part of the pictorial department to pictures of American

Scenery and Indian Portraiture, as better fitted to give the work a

permanent value in libraries and on centre-tables, than the ordinary

catch-penny pictures which disgrace a number of the magazines. Our

illustrations of Southern and Western Scenery have commanded the respect

and support of a very large class of readers; and the constantly growing

celebrity and profit of Graham’s Magazine, indicate that we have judged

wisely and well.

We have engaged the services of Mr. Bird, the author of “Nick of the

Woods,” “Calavar,” etc., to furnish us a series of articles upon the

Indians of America; a writer whose intimate acquaintance with the

subject promises articles of great interest to our readers. We present

our subscribers this month with an admirably drawn and engraved plate of

Saukie and Fox Indians “on the look out.” Also, a beautiful view of a

Waterfall in Georgia.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Ch. Bodmer pinx. ad. nat. Eng^{d} by Rawdon,

Wright & Hatch

Saukie and Fox Indians]

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Poems. By Ralph Waldo Emerson. Boston: James Munroe & Co. 1

vol. 12mo._

We cannot do justice either to the faults or merits of this singular

volume, in a brief notice. The author has one of the most peculiar and

original minds of which we have any record in literature, and a thorough

analysis of his powers, even if successful, would occupy a large space.

No reader of Mr. Emerson’s works need be informed that the poems are

full of imagination, fancy, and feeling, and display a great command of

expression. For our own part we prefer those poems in the volume which

are least connected with the author’s system of ethics and metaphysics,

such as “Each and All,” “The Forerunners,” “The Humble Bee,” and “The

Problem.” In many of the others there is an evident attempt at

versifying opinions; and the opinions are generally of that kind which

readers will either pronounce unintelligible, or false and pernicious.

“The Sphinx,” “Woodnotes,” “Merlin,” “Initial, Demoniac, and Celestial

Love,” “Blight,” “Threnody,” and many other pieces, though containing

many deep and delicate imaginations, are chiefly remarkable as embodying

a theory of life, and system of religion, whose peculiarity consists in

inverting the common beliefs and feelings of mankind. Here and there we

perceive traces of the leading idea contained in that aggregation of

fancy, sensibility, blasphemy, licentiousness, plagiarism, and noble

sentiments, going under the name of “Vestus,”—we mean the idea that

there is no essential difference between evil and good. Thus, in the

“pure realm” to which celestial love mounts, in Mr. Emerson’s theory of

love,

“Good and ill,

And joy and moan,

Melt into one.”

Perhaps this opinion is a necessary result of the principles of

pantheism, but it makes as bad poetry as false philosophy. Indeed, Mr.

Emerson’s poems expressive of opinions, are the harshest in metre, and

least poetical in feeling, which the volume contains; and cannot be

compared, in respect to artistical merit, with the prose statements of

the same, or similar doctrines, in his “Essays.”

* * * * *

_Chaucer and Spenser. Selections from the Writings of Geoffrey

Chaucer, by Charles D. Deshler. Spenser and the Fairy Queen. By

Mrs. C. M. Kirkland. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 Parts. 12mo._

Such a work as this deserves an extensive circulation, and we wish that

any advice of ours could impel our readers to procure it. Here, in a

compact and available form, are some of the finest passages in English

poetry. The selections from Chaucer were evidently a labor of love to

Mr. Deshler, and he has hit upon those portions most likely to entertain

the reader, and awake an affection for the poet. The life of Chaucer,

and the criticism of his mind and works, is exceedingly genial and

truthful.

Mrs. Kirkland has done equal justice to Spenser. Taken together, these

volumes cannot be praised too highly, and their circulation through the

country would do much to raise the taste of the community. Although

these poets occupy the first rank among English authors, they are known

but imperfectly to the large majority of readers. The publishers deserve

the thanks of the public for issuing them in a form, at once cheap and

elegant, so that the treasures of thought and imagination they contain

can be placed within the reach of the humblest lovers of poetry.

* * * * *

_The Modern Standard Drama: A Collection of the most Popular

Acting Plays, with Critical Remarks, &c. Edited by Epes Sargent.

New York: Wm. Taylor & Co. 4 Vols. 12mo._

This publication has now run to forty numbers, and promises to be the

best of all the various collections of acting plays. It is edited by

Epes Sargent, Esq., a gentleman whose knowledge of the stage and of

English dramatic literature is very extensive, and who is himself well

known as a fine poet and successful dramatist. To members of the

profession the collection is invaluable, as it contains directions

regarding stage business, costumes, and other information of much

importance. As a work, also, for the general reader, it has great

merits. It is to contain all the standard plays produced within the last

two centuries, and also the popular dramas of the present day, including

those of Knowles, Bulwer, and Talfourd. Mr. Sargent introduces each play

with a biographical and critical notice, referring to the great actors

who have won renown in its principal character, and discussing also its

intrinsic merits. The field of selection is very rich and extensive, and

includes much, in tragedy and in comedy, of which no one can be

ignorant, who pretends to have on acquaintance with the masterpieces of

English genius. Down to the middle of the last century, a large

proportion of the best English poets were dramatic writers. The theatre

was the place where, in fact, the poet was published. Thousands heard

and saw, who never read. A body of dramatic literature, therefore, on

the comprehensive plan adopted by Mr. Sargeant, will contain a large

number of plays which are part and parcel of English literature.

* * * * *

_Letters on Astronomy, Addressed to a Lady, in which the

Elements of the Science are Familiarly Explained in Connection

with its Literary History. With numerous Engravings. By Denison

Olmstead, LL. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 Vol. 12mo._

This is one of the best popular works on astronomical science which we

have seen. It is clear in exposition, familiar in style, and orderly in

arrangement. There is, of course, nothing of the quackery which

disgraces many works of popularized science. The author is Professor of

Natural Philosophy in Yale College.

* * * * *

_Songs and Ballads, by Samuel Lover. Including those sung in his

Irish Evenings, and hitherto unpublished. New York: Wiley &

Putnam. 1 Vol. 12mo._

Sam Lover is a name which would sell this book even if its merits were

below mediocrity. Personally, and as a writer, he has wrinkled with

happy smiles the faces of thousands. The volume, as might be expected,

is brimful of sentiment and fun, gushing out of a true Irish heart and

brain, and instinct with animation and good feeling. Many of the songs

have been sung by himself, at his “Irish Evenings,” in the principal

cities of the Union. The book could have no better advertisement than

the recollection of the entertainment they occasioned.

* * * * *

_The Poems of Thomas Campbell. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1

vol. 16mo._

This is the best and most complete edition of Campbell yet issued in the

United States. It contains a handsome portrait, six fine steel

engravings, a racy life of the author from Frazer’s Magazine, the

brilliant essay on his genius and writings contained in Gilfillan’s

“Literary Portraits,” and all of Campbell’s later productions, including

the melancholy rhymes entitled “The Pilgrim of Glencoe.” In this volume

we see Campbell in the dawn, progress, and sottish decline of his

powers—as the author at once of the most spirit-stirring lyrics and

most beautiful romantic poems, and as the feeble poetaster, mumbling in

his old age a few verses of polished imbecility, hateful to gods and

men. The greater part of the volume, however, is, in its kind, of first

rate excellence, and will live with the language. We have only to regret

that Campbell did not write more poetry while his genius was in its

prime. What he has written has passed into the hearts and memories of

his countrymen, to a greater extent, perhaps, than the poetry of any of

his contemporaries, even of those who were his superiors in the range of

their genius. Byron, Scott, and Moore, are the only modern poets who

approach him in popularity. Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Shelley, are

still the poets of a few, in spite of the endeavors of publishers and

critics to make them poets of the million. We think each of them

superior to Campbell in genius, but we should despair of ever seeing

them his equals in popularity. One element of his success is the moral

character of his writings, and his sweetness and purity of sentiment;

yet all accounts seem to concur in representing him, personally, as

sottish in his habits, coarse in his conversation, and not without

malice and envy in his disposition. Perhaps his intemperance was the

source of many of his errors; and his intemperance had its source in

laziness. Judging from the records of his conversation, it is fortunate

that the vices of Campbell’s tongue were not the vices of his pen.

* * * * *

_English Synonymes Classified and Explained. By G. F. Graham.

Edited by Henry Reed, LL. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol.

12mo._

To the student of verbal distinctions this volume will be an important

aid. The author points out the shades of distinction between apparently

synonymous words with an admirable nicety of criticism. The study of the

book will tend to sharpen the intellect. It is very much better than the

_chatty_ work of Mrs. Piozzi, and the heavy quarto of Dr. Crabbe, on the

same subject. We note some occasional blunders, such as the distinction

drawn between genius and talent, and understanding and intellect; but

these are but exceptions to the general rule of correctness. Prof. Reed

has furnished on introduction, and apt illustrative quotations from

Shakspeare, Milton, and Wordsworth.

* * * * *

_History of the Netherlands; Trial and Execution of Count Egmont

and Thorn; and the Siege of Antwerp. Translated from the German

of Frederic Schiller. By the Rev. A. J. W. Morrison. New York:

Harper & Brothers. 1 Vol. 12mo._

This volume is a fit companion to the “History of the Thirty Years War,”

issued by the same publishers. Both works are admirable, and place

Schiller in a prominent rank among philosophical historians; but of the

two, we prefer the present. The subject is a noble one, and gives full

exercise to Schiller’s large intellect, and heroic and humane spirit.

The plan of the history is especially excellent, and we have only to

regret that it was never completed.

* * * * *

_Hudibras. By Samuel Butler. With Notes and a Literary Memoir,

by the Rev. Treadway Russell Nash, D.D. New York: D. Appleton &

Co. 1 Vol. 12mo._

The publishers have issued this masterpiece of wit in a form similar to

their editions of Dante, Tasso, and Campbell. The edition is enriched

with curious and copious notes, illustrative of Butler’s time, and

contains a well written biography. It is the only good edition of

Hudibras ever published in the United States, and we hope that thousands

who have never enjoyed its perusal, will be enabled to do it now. The

original work contained so many allusions to the author’s recondite

knowledge, and to the factions and fanaticisms of his day, that it

cannot be read understandingly without some such commentary as Dr. Nash

has supplied. Butler is the wittiest of the English poets.

* * * * *

_The Book of Anecdotes, or the Moral of History; Taught by Real

Examples. By John Frost, LL. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1

vol. 12mo._

This is an entertaining volume, and will be especially acceptable to the

young. It is hardly worthy, however, of being called “the moral of

history,” even that moral which history should teach the boys and girls.

The “do-me-good” air of the narratives, is strangely at variance with

the essential character of some of the events and actors. The most

superficial student will notice in the volume many incorrect impressions

conveyed of historical personages. The “moral” of the book is about on a

level with the moral of Weems’s lives of Washington and Marion.

* * * * *

_Eclectic Moral Philosophy. Prepared for Literary Institutions

and General Use. By Rev. J. R. Boyd. New York: Harper &

Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This work is principally made up of classified selections from standard

writers on ethics. It, of course, lacks unity, and therefore can hardly

be called a system of philosophy; but it very well answers the purpose

for which it was compiled. Its merit, as a book for schools and general

use, consists in the stringent application of moral principles to

individual conduct. All those actions and states of mind which clash

with morality, are analyzed with much acuteness, and set forth with

great directness.

* * * * *

_Ghost Stones: Collected with a View to Counteract the Vulgar

Belief in Ghosts and Apparations. With Ten Engravings from

Designs by Darley. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

The object of this little volume is clearly enough set forth in the

title. It contains twenty stories. The illustrations are graphic, and

add to the interest of the wonders described. We notice, however, one

omission—the Cock Lane Ghost, in which Dr. Johnson believed. So

celebrated a ghost as that should have had a prominent place among the

other spectral worthies of the volume.

* * * * *

_A Progressive German Reader, Adapted to the American Edition of

Ollendorff’s German Grammar: with Copious Notes, and a

Vocabulary. By G. J. Adler, A. B. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1

vol. 12mo._

This is an excellent supplement to the German Grammar issued by the same

publishers. It is edited by the Professor of the German Language and

Literature, in the University of New York. The selections are from some

fifty German writers, and are admirably adapted for their purpose. The

Vocabulary of German words is an important addition.

* * * * *

_Views A-Foot: or Europe Seen with Knapsack and Staff. By J.

Bayard Taylor. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 Parts. 12mo._

All things considered, we deem this work one of the most deserving which

“Young America” has yet produced. It is written by a young man just of

age, who started for Europe before he was nineteen, with not more than a

hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket, and for two years literally

walked about Europe. He supported himself by literature, and at the end

of his journey had not expended more than four hundred dollars. The

excellence of the work comes from its exceeding freshness and spirit.

For every great object of nature and art which the author saw, he had to

suffer some privations; and he accordingly describes them much better

than he would have done had he possessed the “advantages” of common

tourists. Besides, his mode of traveling made him familiar with the

people of the countries he visited; and he gives many curious anecdotes

of their manners and condition. It is honorable to human nature, that

his impressions of the common people in England, Germany, Italy, and

Switzerland, were of a pleasing character, as he was often placed in

relations to them calculated to draw out their true nature, whether it

were kind or kindless. He was almost uniformly treated with hospitality,

and sometimes even with affection. He discovered, however, that they

were singularly and ridiculously ignorant of every thing regarding

America—its geography, its government, and its people.

There is one quality in this book which every reader must feel to be

fascinating—we mean the beautiful sweetness and healthiness of the

author’s mind and disposition. He never brags of the obstacles he

surmounted, nor whines at the privations he endured, but tells the story

of his journeyings with a most bewitching simplicity and modesty. Youth,

and the bright thoughts and sweet feelings of youth, are on every page,

infusing life into the narrative, and giving picturesque vigor to the

descriptions. The author must bear a brave, serene, and modest heart

under his jacket; and we cordially wish him and his delightful book all

the success which both so richly merit.

* * * * *

_Alderbrook: a Collection of Fanny Forrester’s Village Sketches,

Poems, &c. By Miss Emily Chubbuck. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co.

2 vols. 12mo._

No reader of “Graham” will need any advice from us to procure these

elegant volumes, as a large portion of their contents was originally

contributed to this Magazine, and obtained a wide and deserved

popularity. We are glad to see the admirable stories of the authoress

thus collected. They will take an honorable position in the department

of literature to which they belong. Fanny Forrester, indeed, is one of

the most charming of story-tellers. She has ease, grace, invention,

vivacity, a quick eye for character and manners, and a fine flexible

style. The interest of the book is enhanced by the present position of

the gifted authoress. As Mrs. Judson, she will devote her fine talents

and beautiful enthusiasm of character to a new object. The present book,

therefore, has almost the look of a posthumous work. We need not ask for

it what it will be sure to obtain—the attention and the good-will of

the reading public.

* * * * *

_Literary Studies, a Collection of Miscellaneous Essays. By W.

A. Jones. New York: Edward Walker. 1 Vol. 12mo._

This elegant volume contains thirty-two essays on a wide variety of

subjects connected with literature and life. They are the production of

a gentleman who has made literature a study, and who always gives in his

essays the results of his own investigations and reflections. The style

is very condensed; the fault of the diction, perhaps, arises from the

too great desire of the author to cram the largest amount of thought and

observation into the smallest possible space. This unusual peculiarity

of style is the ideal of style when it is combined with mellowness and

vitality; but the sentences of Mr. Jones are often dry and brittle, as

well as condensed. Bating this defect, the volume is deserving of great

praise. In short essays it takes comprehensive views of wide domains of

letters, and is a good guide to the student of elegant literature. The

literary information which it contains is very large. We will venture to

say that no man in the country can read it without learning something

which he did not know before.

* * * * *

_Amy Herbert: a Tale. By Miss Sewell. New York: D. Appleton &

Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This work has essentially the same characteristics as the novel of

“Gertrude,” by the same authoress. Miss Sewell is the daughter, we

believe, of an English Episcopal clergyman of the Oxford school. Her

tales inculcate the piety and morality of practical life; deal with

ordinary cares and temptations, expose the moral dangers which beset

every relation of existence, and evince a clear insight into the heart’s

workings, under the pressure of every day enticements. The thoughtful

cheerfulness of her religious faith diffuses through her stories a

certain beautiful repose which sometimes almost suggests genius. Her

books are of that kind which are calculated to benefit even more than to

please.

* * * * *

_Lucretia, or the Children of the Night. By Sir Bulwer Lytton.

New York: Harper & Brothers._

In this strange mass of “crimson crimes,” the author of “Pelham” has

fairly rivaled the French school of novelists. It displays more morbid

strength of mind than any thing which Bulwer has previously written.

Though exceedingly interesting, and evincing much power in the analysis

of the darker passions, it leaves a disagreeable impression. The tone of

the sentiment is not English. The novel, indeed, exhibits the

characteristic qualities of the author in a form exaggerated almost to

caricature. It reads like a melo-drama. We may refer to it more at large

in our next number.

* * * * *

_The Use of the Body in Relation to the Mind. By George Moore,

M. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 Vol. 12mo._

One of the most important subjects which can engage human attention is

in this work, so treated, that its great leading facts and principles

can be understood by the common reader. The author has evidently given

to each topic he discusses the most profound attention, and has produced

a work which, if diligently studied by the mass of people, is calculated

to remove a vast sum of that misery which springs from ignorance.

* * * * *

_Specimens of the Poets and Poetry of Greece and Rome. By

Various Translators. Edited by William Peter, A. M., of Christ

Church, Oxford. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 Vol. 8vo._

A work like the present has long been wanted, and we are glad that an

American house has had the enterprise to undertake it. In no other

volume, with which we are acquainted, can the reader obtain so

comprehensive a view of the poetry of the Ancients. Mr. Peter’s

biographical notices are excellent. He has made selections from nearly

two hundred authors—a work of vast labor performed with great skill and

taste.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

LE FOLLET

61, Boulevart S^{t}. Martin, PARIS

_Toilettes de M^{me}._ Mercier, _r. N^{ve}. des Petits Champs,

82.—Coiffures de_ Normandin, _passage Choiseul, 19._

_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. de Choiseul, 2 bis.—Fleurs de M^{me}._ Tilman,

_r. de Menars, 2._

_Mouchoir de_ L. Chapron & Dubois, _r. de la Paix, 7.—Eventail de_

Vagneur-Dupré, _r. de la Paix, 19._

Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been

corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below.

For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to

condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.

page 145, of the Solway Frith, ==> of the Solway Firth,

page 145, the spacious workship of ==> the spacious workshop of

page 146, and critical eyes, ==> and critical eye,

page 156, yet keep the secret ==> yet kept the secret

page 156, with a pecular relish ==> with a peculiar relish

page 157, person was Sanford. ==> person was Sandford.

page 172, The watchward, “The Oath ==> The watchword, “The Oath

page 172, was suddedly transformed ==> was suddenly transformed

page 175, minister and Mr. Mowbry. ==> minister and Mr. Mowbray.

page 177, the statesque Georgine ==> the statuesque Georgine

page 177, seen the statesque— ==> seen the statuesque—

page 180, of the kaliedoscope. ==> of the kaleidoscope.

page 183, to be forgotton. In ==> to be forgotten. In

page 183, he might thing of ==> he might think of

page 185, “Is an any one ==> “Is any one

page 197, misery and wretchednes, ==> misery and wretchedness,

page 200, ruin shall upsring? ==> ruin shall upspring?

page 203, Coleridge, and Shelly, are ==> Coleridge, and Shelley, are

page 204, obstacles he surmuounted ==> obstacles he surmounted

page 204, the two great desire of ==> the too great desire of